Diathesis Stress
by Pelican Eel
Summary: Linda Redgill is tired of Midgar, tired of ShinRa, tired of the Urban Development Department and their paperwork. She's angry too - thanks to Avalanche, Sector 7 is gone and so is her grandfather.
1. Trains Require Patience

**Disclaimer:** Final Fantasy VII does not belong to me, and it never will be.

**Author's Notes:** Lots of OCs in this one, what horror! Let's see if it gets off the ground. ;)

_**-+-+-+-+-+-**_

It was a quiet time in Sector 7, under the looming shadow of Midgar's plate. Slum dwellers continued their daily lives, lacking a sense of time. For all they knew, without working clocks, it could have been way past their bedtime. Neither did they care.

The owner of the Seventh Heaven poked her head out of the bar entrance, propping an "Open" sign on the door; she gave the alcohol enthusiasts outside a quick smile before her crown of long brown hair disappeared back into the bar. The regulars followed shortly afterwards, chattering amongst themselves. A boy wearing a tattered chocobo T-shirt perched himself on the weapon shop balcony, lobbing small rocks at any unlucky passers. He giggled uncontrollably when they waved their fists at him in return; giggled and giggled until a tired mother dragged him indoors. A group of young adults shuffled packs of cards in the middle of the street whilst a small crowd huddled around them to watch. It was an ordinary moment in the slum's tattered history, or which there was not much history at all.

Corrugated steel and rusted junk formed a rudimentary house, hidden behind piles of unwanted rubbish. From its window a frail man watched, and with shaking hands he held a cracked teacup filled to the brim with muddied water. His grey, stubbled chin was covered in thin scars and his eyes showed deep weariness. He let out a heavy sigh, taking a quick sip from the water before turning. The man's house was not a spectacular sight to behold, as it consisted of nothing more than a sunken mattress upon the floor and a rickety table with its rickety chair. The only sign of decoration was a watercolour painting of the sea already fading from years of neglect, with a single palm tree offering the Planet its shade.

_She's late_, thought the old man. He sank into the rickety chair, resting the half-filled teacup on the table. _She's always late. The train never arrived, she says. There was nothing she could do about it, she says. Too much hassle at work._ He scoffed, brushing away a settlement of dust that had collected on his table – it tickled his nose and made him sneeze.

"Bless you." He grumbled.

Raymond had been in Midgar for a long time, mixing in with the slum folk without too much trouble. He was unmarried, he missed his younger life and if he still had the strength to do so, he'd be at the Wall Market faster than a man could blink. He breathed deeply. Life in the slums had always been difficult, and it got worse with his crippling age. Gil was hard to come by, and with it, food too. It was possible to live off bread, but it was hardly the nutritional diet people craved. Life was getting too difficult for old Raymond, and not even his own daughter was around to help. She visited on the rare occasion, but other than that: no help.

A tapping came to his window. He turned to face it, barely able to make out the small face on the other side of the murky pane. There was a smile on that face, but it was not the face he was expecting. Nevertheless, it was company; though brief company. "Mister Ray, Mi-iiiister Ray!" Called the figure with a cheerful tone. The tone Raymond could recognise it from anywhere.

"Marlene, my dear girl," Raymond croaked, with a grin from ear to ear. "Come on in. The door's open."

Marlene poked her head into the one-roomed house. Her pale complexion bore a wide smile. In her arms she carried a bottle. "Tifa wanted me to give this to you, Mister Ray." She pushed it onto the table. "The bar's got too many people. Busy, she says."

Raymond turned the bottle with curiosity. Alcohol. Perfect. He thanked Marlene, ruffling her hair as she blushed furiously. "You tell Tifa I said thanks to her too, alright?"

"Yes, Mister!" She chirped. She spun on her heels, gave a playful curtsy and then skipped to the door. "Bye, Mister!"

_She'll make the slums proud._ He thought as her head disappeared past the low window. Pushing the bottle into the center of the table, he frowned. Tifa and Marlene looked after him, and Raymond depended on this fact. Without them, he was convinced he wouldn't even last night. They were important for his survival.

Unlike a certain daughter of his.

A daughter who still hadn't arrived.

_**-+-+-+-+-+-+-**_

"Wake and shine, O my lo—ooove!"

Linda groaned in her sleep. It was cold, the bed was unsatisfying, and it was still cold. There was something digging into her arm, like a bloody dagger. Sharp, insistent and cold. Despite it, she did not want to wake up. Work had been difficult, and the amount of paperwork she received from the folks in Urban Development had towered to the state that she just couldn't do no more. She needed a vacation desperately.

"You are my sunshi—iiine, so wake up and show me that sunri—iiise!"

The bed was uncomfortable, and to top it all off, that was some terrible singing. The jabbing accentuated, leaving Linda feeling irritable. Her eyes snapped open. "Will you cut that out?!"

"The sleeping beauty awakes!" The man beside her smirked. It was a good friend of Linda's. A cheerful, loving man with a rounded shape. He wasn't the most attractive of men, and many considered him to be a "chubby bastard", but he had a certain charm about him that lured Linda in. He worked in the same department as Linda.

"Whatever you say, Melton_." s_he mumbled. What Linda also noticed was that she wasn't sleeping on a hard bed either. It was a train. A thin layer of cold mist had settled over the compartment windows, and she could see from the window a supportive pillar stretching out into the plate above, keeping it aloft. They were here. "When did I fall asleep?"

Melton rubbed his nose – a particular habit of his when he was clueless.

"Hm-hm." Linda picked herself up, brushing down her corporate suit and fixing the nametag upon her breast pocket. "Thanks for coming along."

The usual banter up on the plate about the harsh, dangerous reality of the slums worried Linda. It was a reality that was too risky for a pretty woman like herself, with short black hair that barely reached the neck. A tall figure she was, with curves gone to to slimness; there was simplicity, with a small nose, dimpled smile and – she frowned. Male slumdogs were not her type, and she had to be careful. That was why she brought Milton.

Stepping from the train with Milton following closely behind, she gave a curt nod to the guard standing by the train doors, who returned it in kind. Though Midgar was naturally a dark place, the obscurity of the slums was something Linda still had to get used to. There was no planned shape to it, leaving only a mishmash of junk-filled paths and shanty-houses put up in the most pointless of places. It was an easy place to get lost in.

Milton turned to the train guard as Linda made her way down the steps from the platform. He asked for the direction to the Seventh Heaven, which happened to be a popular bar in the slums, and their destination was close to it. Linda had been here before, yet it always seemed so different every time she came. "I'll lead the way, alright?" Milton suggested.

Linda nodded, giving him a nudge forward.


	2. Happy Birthday, Pop

"Wait." Milton stopped Linda dead in her tracks, taking gentle grip of her shoulders. "I should have done this a long time ago."

Linda cocked her head to the right, hand shooting upwards to pat his right arm. A half-sheepish, half-cocky smile popped up, replying, "What, kiss me?" Another pat on the arm, suggestive, playful.

Milton grinned, plucking the nametag from her breast pocket. He glanced down at it, letters dipped into a plastic identity, improbably suitable for a slum. "Linny, my fair lady." He held it up to her level between thumb and index finger, portrait. Linda studied it as if in an art gallery, chewing her lower lip ever so slightly. Milton continued, "You are a Shinra employee. Paperwork and suits are your friends – the slums are not." He discreetly slid the tag into her trouser pocket. "You should have got changed into something more casual too."

"It was easier to came straight from work, you know." Shamefaced, Linda brushed down her suit. Despite having family connections down in the slums, she did not come down so often, and people noted her for lacking street-wise common sense in "new" social environments.

Milton clicked his tongue. "They have lockers on the recreation floor."

"I don't trust them."

"Of course. Terrorists and disguises."

Linda nodded, and giggled into her fist. "I'm already late as it is."

"Oh." Milton paused for thought, forehead wrinkled. "Oh!"

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

_This isn't just a reactor!_

Cloud Strife suddenly lost all momentum in his legs; he lurched to the side, barely managing to hook his arm around the banister. The blue, wispy heat of the Mako pit made him nauseous and brought sweat to his skin. The sudden intrusion into his mind from an unknown voice left him feeling sick, confused and most certainly irritated. It sounded gut-wrenchingly familiar.

"What's wrong?"

Cloud snapped back to reality, tightening his grip to the safety rail. Narrowing his strange blue eyes to the surrounding reactor, he took special note of the gigantic man with the gun-arm. An impatient paw drummed against the surface of the gun-arm. It was Barret Wallace, and he looked far from content. "Huh?" His mind was blank.

"What's wrong, Cloud?" Barret snapped. "Hurry it up!"

Barret's feet-tapping and agitated gestures reminded Cloud of the severity of the situation. Not the Planet, that did not bother him in the slightest; it was the possible arrival of guards and perhaps even SOLDIER that worried him. He nodded, and hurriedly set down the bomb. It was all Jessie's work; the wiring, the time-limit, the destructive force that so happened to be bundled into such a small object. It was enough to take down the entire reactor.

The moment it was set, the world fell to panic. Lights flashed, red – bright, bright red. A roaring alarm, drilling into Cloud's ears with force. His heavy sword was already out, and Barret was waving his gun-arm threateningly. Cloud could see it in the dark man's eyes, behind the veil of seething hatred – there was an undying passion for the Planet, and for the close ones he shared it with. It would go with Barret to the grave – a sentiment Cloud did not share.

A click-clatter of metallic legs resounded throughout the hollow reactor. A grinding of metal clashed together with the whirring and whistling of a search beam, peeking past the pipes and ladders. A gigantic beast of wires and metal landed on the walkway, blocking the path with its weight. A scorpion-like tail rose, vibrating with destructive energy, ready to kill the intruders.

This was going to be difficult.

The reactor's demise ticked ever closer.

-+-+-+-+-+-

The sight of his daughter was enough to bring his tired tranquility to a close. The dim smile on Linda's face proved her reluctance to be here; a face of wealth and arrogance. She leaned against the doorway, arms folded, gaze wandering. Raymond was still sitting in the rickety chair, behind the rickety table – a sheet of metal hammered over four wooden legs. The moment was tense and uncomfortable for both.

"Took your time, Linda." He stated. He stood from the chair, arching his hunched back. Smoothing one hand over the table's surface, he circled around it so he could reach his daughter.

"Happy birthday, pop." The sheepish smile never wavered. Her hand swept across her forehead, brushing back fallen strands of hair.

The old man brought her into a firm hug. A familiar embrace – neither intimate nor comforting. A simple exchange to mark each other's existence. "You remembered. I'm... glad."

Linda broke away from the hug, tucking in her suit. Her eyes drifted away to the corrugated steel walls, brought in from the dumps, and her nose wrinkled from the stale smell of the old slum dweller. "Are you doing fine here, pop?"

"Yes... yes, I am."

"There's nothing here."

Raymond followed her gaze, nodding with agreement.

"Look, pop – I can get you a place to live on the plate. Decent enough quality to spend the rest of your life." She looked at him expectantly, hoping for another nod of the head. The answer she received was quite the opposite.

"No."

"What do you mean, "no"?"

Raymond took a step back, sighing. "I like it here."

A figure darted past the window, shouting obscenities in a drunken slur. The interruption stopped Linda from responding, her mouth clasped shut. She knew it was impossible to argue with her father; he had difficulty leaving his history behind. A history of financial neglect that had sent him down here in the first place without a gil for his name, largely brought on by the death of the mother – a name mostly forgotten by both father and daughter, as it were for Midgar's obituary: just a number.

The silence between them was broken by a brief rumble, marked by Raymond's only teacup rolling off the edge of the table.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

"_...over three-thousand have been killed in the explosion..._"

Gin and tonic. Untouched. Milton had no time to drink; he could only stare in awe and surprised distaste. Jaw line tightened, nose wrinkled, thumb circling the rim of the glass. Three-thousand: it was unbelievable. How could Avalanche do such a thing? To save the planet? Milton scoffed, nudging the glass to his right, out of the way.

The bartender watched him curiously with a dirty rag pressed flat over the counter. Her cheeks sank to form a conspicuous frown, half-hidden by a mask of hair. "Terrible way to end the day, hm." She said.

Her name was Tifa, or so the local patrons called her. A woman of slim build, her appearance certainly belied the stories told of her immense strength and athletic flexibility: no man would cross her path. A beautiful woman, nonetheless, who looked out of place in the slums of Midgar. Milton wondered if she ever lived on the plate.

"..._authorities are expected to apprehend the terrorists..."_

"Hm-hm. Put me off my drink, it did." Milton said, grinning sheepishly. He raised a hand to scratch his cheek.

Tifa acknowledged her own ability to listen with a simple nod of the head. "Not a great idea. You paid quite a bit."

"Point there." He pulled back his gin and tonic, bringing it to his thirsty lips.


End file.
